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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28266840">day by day, night by night, we were together</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3'>QuickSilverFox3</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnificent Seven (2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chief of Police!Billy, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Organized Crime, Softly-spoken mob boss!Goodnight, Wedding Rings as a Love Language</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:00:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,982</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28266840</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickSilverFox3/pseuds/QuickSilverFox3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The office was quiet, filled with the scent of old paperwork quietly decomposing and burnt coffee, acrid enough to still remain even after what felt like a decade of smelling it. </p>
<p>Billy stared at the paperwork laid out on the desk like a sacrifice on an altar, the words blurring in front of his eyes into an incomprehensible mess. He knew what they said, as it was the same meaningless platitudes that all of the reports contained.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Rocks &amp; Vasquez, Goodnight Robicheaux/Billy Rocks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>day by day, night by night, we were together</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fontainebleau/gifts">Fontainebleau</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Secret Santa Present for fontainebleau<br/>Prompt: Chief of Police Billy is married to softly-spoken mob boss Goodnight (relates to tumblr post at <br/><a href="https://fontainebleau22.tumblr.com/post/188566185804/someone-write-this-please-even-better-if-they-are"> here</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The office was quiet, filled with the scent of old paperwork quietly decomposing and burnt coffee, acrid enough to still remain even after what felt like a decade of smelling it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Billy stared at the paperwork laid out on the desk like a sacrifice on an altar, the words blurring in front of his eyes into an incomprehensible mess. He knew what they said, as it was the same meaningless platitudes that all of the reports contained. His own lay among them, chronicling the events of the day, careful and precise as always, although today had hardly been commonplace. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hadn’t had to write a basic case report in months, though he could still remember the early days of his time in this department. The memories almost felt dusty from lack of recollection — too many nights spent with the cheapest coffee he could fuel himself with, acrid and bitter but he gulped it down regardless, and stumbling into his cheap apartment with whatever takeaway was still open, food flavoured bitter with homesickness. He had been so angry then, permanent indentations in his tongue from the press of his teeth, swallowing back his words because </span>
  <em>
    <span>not yet, not now</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t miss those days.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Billy nudged his glasses—heavy black frames weighing him down—further up his nose, and drew another file towards him. The politicians were circling like sharks that scented blood in the water, but Billy knew the landscape better than they ever could. But still, he was here, alone amidst a sea of dark offices with only the distant glow of the night shift breakroom to sustain him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He hummed — the melody already half forgotten — as he scanned over Vasquez’s report, pen flying over the lines of the notebook, as he carefully and methodically tore it to shreds. As he worked, his thoughts turned to home, almost empty except for the cat — a huge striped moggy that seemed content to sleep the day away in stark contrast to Billy’s manic working life. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Given what had happened that day, he glanced at the small calendar pinned to the wall. It seemed out of place—brightly coloured still life portraits, all themed around Louisiana—against the framed newspapers that covered the rest of the wall. There was a betting pool, one he pretended not to know about and they pretended that he didn’t know, about the calendar’s origin, dutifully replaced every year and seemingly random dates marked. Red Harvest, somehow privy to every stray scrap of gossip that circulated around the department, was the closest.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Tradition started by an ex,” he had said, voice pitched to carry across a busy mechanics shop and easily reaching Billy’s ears when he was holed up in his office, as he always was. The hisses from his officers were less audible, but Billy had grinned to himself regardless, returning Red’s wave when the man walked past on his way out.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The last date Billy had circled was almost three weeks ago, the knowledge settling like a stone in the pit of his stomach, and he forced his gaze back to the reports, even though that only made his thoughts circle more, twisting towards the topic he was trying desperately not to think about, like a whirlpool slowly drawing him in. His phone buzzing gently was a welcome distraction from his wandering thoughts—his heart skipping a reflexive beat although he knew, logically, it was going to be nothing. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>‘</b>
  <span>Night shift says you’re still there, boss. Got something keeping you company?’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Vasquez walked the line between personal and professional better than a professional acrobat. Billy would walk through fire to keep him, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> walked through fire to keep him. They never spoke of that day: Vasquez’s face unnaturally pale from the lack of sun and fear, nails biting into Billy’s arm as they waited in the hospital room, but Billy neatly made sure it would not happen again, everything above board and carefully filed away.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He frowned at the phone, drumming his fingers against the peeling leather case as he thought of his response. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>‘</b>
  <span>Coffee.’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was, technically, the truth. The coffee was stone cold by now, almost congealing in the mug, but he still took a sip, fighting back the reflexive grimace at the consistency.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>‘</b>
  <span>You should be out living life, boss, especially after that guy got away from us again today! I got a cousin you should meet.’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The statement was expected, but it still startled a laugh out of Billy. Vasquez seemed to have a never ending supply of cousins, all as unfairly attractive as he was, with warm smiles and laughs that could cause wars to cease. Billy came back to himself with a cold jolt of panic, thumb pressing into the empty hollow at the base of his ring finger.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It took a moment—mind blank with panic, heart ceasing to beat in his chest—but it passed, and Billy curled his fingers around the chain on his neck, pulling the ring up from where it rested next to his heart. The inscription was hidden on the inside the band, and Billy tilted the ring in the faint light to read it once more. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>Day by day, night by night, we were together</span>
  </em>
  <span>—’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was part of a matching set and Billy carefully tucked it back beneath his shirt. The urge to wear it burned like banked coals beneath his skin, but it was tempered by an overabundance of caution. The rumor mill already ran riot without any help from him.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He returned to the reports, a steadily growing headache pulsing just behind his eyes. Time trickled by, the hands on the clock never seeming to move and the pile of paperwork only seemed to grow. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His phone buzzed once more, dragging Billy out of the blur of cramped text and acts made impersonal in the retelling. Billy glanced at it, expecting the message to be from Vasquez gently trying his luck again or even from one of his own sister’s and their strange telepathic synchronization. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The picture he received was of a familiar place. Billy recognised the curved iron of his headboard—patterned like the gates from a fairytale—and his sheets, newly washed and a soft grey plaid. But what released the tension from his shoulders, allowed the racing worry in the back of his mind to cease—the worry he had been ignoring ever since their encounter that afternoon—was the grin on Goodnight’s face as he lounged on the bed, wide enough to reveal his golden tooth. The cat was curled up on his chest, bare except for the faded tattoo and the bandages wrapped around his side. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A message followed quickly, the number unfamiliar, but Billy knew who it was. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>‘</b>
  <span>Just a scratch, cher. Your aim is as perfect as always &lt;3’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Billy tucked the files back into a pile, the chair bumping into the cupboard behind him as he stood up. The room swayed slightly around him, but he was moving before it settled, tapping out as response as he did so.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>‘</b>
  <span>I’m on my way home now.’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The answering message arrived barely a moment later. ‘I’ve got food cooking. Hurry back to me soon, love.’</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Luckily, Billy knew some shortcuts, his heart lodged in his throat the entire time, wavering on the edge of the speed limit in his barely restrained excitement. Nearly three weeks since he had last seen Goodnight properly, eighteen days when all Billy had heard were the whispers of the rumormill and the scraps of information he could glean from the reports. Eighteen days and then the shootout this afternoon, sighting Goodnight down his sight and needing to pull the trigger, so he did. It was a delicate balancing act between their jobs, but Goodnight winked, confident and glorious before he pulled his cold persona on like an ill-fitting coat.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Billy was a good shot, an excellent marksman, but even so, the world was unpredictable. The moment barely lasted longer than a heartbeat, and yet, the image of Goodnight stumbling to one side as the group ran, one hand flying to his side but he hadn’t fallen. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He took the stairs up to his front door two at a time, pausing for only a moment before unlocking the door. He was a police detective, and some habits were hard to shake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The pin that held up his hair was razor-sharp, heavy and cold in his hand as Billy slipped through the barely opened door, feet barely making a sound as he crept through the house. There was a warmth in the air, the scent of spices and onion and garlic lying thick and almost seeming to settle at the back of Billy’s throat as he breathed it in. Light spilled from the half-open door to the kitchen, a bubbling pot sat on the oven which—he could just see through the window—held Goodnight’s favourite casserole pan. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello, love.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Goodnight stole up behind him like a shadow, wrapping his hands around Billy’s in one quick movement, and absorbing the reflexive jerk of the other man. Billy scowled, knowing that Goodnight would be able to feel the motion, his cheek pressed to Billy’s as his hands slipped from Billy’s wrists to wrap around his waist in a tight embrace. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The press of his body burned like a brand, and Billy leant backwards into him, twisting to capture his mouth in a bruising kiss. Goodnight’s beard was longer, rough against Billy’s cheeks but the groan he emitted was familiar, his grip tightening a moment before they separated by a matter of millimeters, foreheads pressed together. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I missed you, cher,” Goodnight murmured, a hand stealing up to hook around the chain of Billy’s necklace and pull it free, wrapping it around his own hand so the rings knocked gently together. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nearly three weeks, Goody,” Billy hissed, “Three weeks and nothing.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Goodnight sighed. “God willing, I’ll never have to leave you like that again.” He kissed down Billy’s neck, the other man twitching at the sensation, before pausing at the juncture of his shoulder. “The food will keep. Go sit down. As my daddy always said, you look like a strong wind will just about blow you over.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Billy kissed him, soft and sweet, unable to hold back the gentle rumble of contentment in his chest, and felt Goodnight grin against his mouth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Go on.” Goodnight squeezed him tighter for a moment before stepping back—goosebumps flickering down Billy’s spine at the immediate chill—and gently pushed him towards the sofa. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Billy folded himself down with a groan, every joint in his body seeming to pop and crack in unison.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He listened, hearing the familiar click of Goodnight’s heels against the wood floor as he moved back into the kitchen, the low hum as the radio was turned back on and music spilled out like sunlight and Goodnight joined in despite not knowing the words. The cat—named Madame by Goodnight, and she lived up to her name—wandered into the room expectantly, brushing past Billy’s legs and staring up at him with her mismatched eyes, allowing him to scratch behind her ears before slinking off once more.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Goodnight laughed as he returned, low in his throat, and Billy’s stomach swooped as if in response. He pressed his head back against the hard brocade of the sofa—knowing from experience he would only suffer if he stayed too long like this, but it was always worth it in the end—and watched Goodnight. The other man curled one battle-hardened hand around Billy’s throat, thumb tracing along the exposed cords before it settled over the pulse point.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“All you do, cher, is smile at me, and I am yours forever,” Goodnight promised, leaning down to kiss Billy. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Through half-lidded eyes, Billy saw the exact moment a grimace of pain passed over Goodnight’s face, his movement immediately halted as one hand pressed the stitches in his stomach. His laughter was unexpected, bubbling out of him helplessly and Billy sitting up and curling forward in an attempt to halt it. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When he glanced up, the expression of pleading affront Goodnight wore so proudly, the sheer aura of disgruntlement he radiated set Billy off all over again. His laughter was a blessing, permeating through the grey fog he had carried with him since that last golden day, when Goodnight kissed him goodbye, hidden from any prying eyes behind the wood of the door.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The latch had bit into his hand as he caught it—creating an indent he pressed his fingers into until it faded away hours later, leaving the memory behind like a ghost—his reflexive noise of surprise swallowed by the desperate press of Goodnight’s lips to his. Billy was overwhelmed by the taste of mint, the scratch of Goodnight’s beard—as he hadn’t shaved yet on purpose, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>bastard</span>
  </em>
  <span> but he was Billy’s bastard—as Goodnight sought to send him off to work with his cheeks a rosy pink and the shape of Goodnight’s lips imprinted on his very soul.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Billy knew he should step away. It was a dangerous line they walked, this separation between who they were and what they did, and Billy had been already halfway out of the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nothing but trouble,” Billy had murmured against Goodnight’s mouth, feeling rather than seeing the other man grin.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“But I’m your trouble to mind, cher.” Goodnight winked, impossibly long eyelashes brushing against Billy’s and he muffled his laughter in Goodnight’s neck, biting him a bruise to remember Billy by when they were apart. And if he had made sure it was slightly higher than the collars Goodnight favoured, then that was his business.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You doing alright there, Goody?” Billy drawled, deliberately drawing on the elongated vowels Goodnight favoured.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Pauvre ti bête,” Goodnight hissed, straightening back up, fingers curled like talons into the fabric either side of Billy’s face. “Looking so beautiful, and not being kissed right now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You could kiss me.” Billy punctuated his sentence by twisting to press a kiss to one of the many pale scars that covered Goodnight’s hands: almost a match to his own, but where Billy’s were the neat lines of knives or the blotched circles of burns, Goodnight’s were the uniform circles of cigarette burns. Further up his arms and covering his chest and back like a constellation Billy had mapped countless times over were the starburst scars of gunshots. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Goodnight urged Billy to lift his head up just enough so he could free the trapped strands of his hair, carefully carding his fingers through it. “I could kiss you, cher. I could do so much more than kiss you, except you </span>
  <em>
    <span>shot</span>
  </em>
  <span> me.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Only a little.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Only a little,” Goodnight repeated, his voice flat. Billy felt a reflexive shiver rattle down his spine as he was uncomfortably reminded of exactly who his husband was. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They first met at a bar. Like all lies, it held enough truth to make it plausible. It had been a bar at one point, but that was long before Billy first stepped foot into the building, ready for a fight. Goodnight changed the embellishments with every retelling —far enough away from the city that no-one recognised their faces, revelling in the anonymity—but the core remained the same. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Billy was a force of nature, and Goodnight had seen that with the eyes of a predator, desperate for companionship, like calling to like. Billy had seen Goodnight, and—after his first thought that Goodnight needed a solid eight hours of sleep—had spat out a mouthful of blood and laid his final opponent out, knuckles bruised and bloody. He hadn’t known, at first, who Goodnight was. But Billy knew himself, a spine of steel and stubborn. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It was a good shot, wasn’t it?” Billy murmured, carefully slipping the chain from around his neck—Goodnight moving his hands just enough to allow the chain past before resuming carding gentle fingers through the short hairs at the base of Billy’s skull—and pulling the ring free. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Goodnight moved to take it from him, and Billy pressed the warmed metal into Goodnight’s palm. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Day by day, night by night, we were together—” Goodnight read, twisting the ring across his fingers like a carnival showman.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“—All else has long been forgotten by me,” Billy finished, raising his hand up to allow Goodnight to slip it onto his ring finger. It felt like a piece of him was returned, an invisible weight lifted off his shoulders as the world around them slowed to a more manageable pace. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Goodnight’s face softened, love so clear to Billy and he couldn’t help but shift so he was sitting on his knees so he could kiss Goodnight properly, cupping his face. Goodnight murmured something soft in French, too quiet for Billy to catch and—</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They broke apart with a start as the fire alarm sounded, Goodnight kissing Billy once more before moving back into the kitchen, cursing everything from the very concept of smoke alarms to the universe conspiring against him kissing his husband. Billy watched him go, a soft smile on his face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>His husband was home, there was a home-cooked meal in his near future and Goodnight would be back in his bed in the slightly further future. The next day when Billy went to work, he would be able to kiss Goodnight at the door to say goodbye, and kiss him when he returned home, and everything was right with the world. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Billy pressed his wedding ring to his lips, grinning against the warm metal. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Want a hand, Goody?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Billy, if you don’t get this infernal thing to turn off then so help me God!”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Billy laughed, hearing Goodnight’s cursing tail off to listen, and stumbled to his feet to go and rescue his husband—the most feared crime boss in the city—from the smoke alarm.</span>
</p>
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